101 Reasons Valentine's Day Sucks
by YanksLuver
Summary: Weiss spends Valentine's Day baby-sitting Mitchell.


Title: 101 Reasons Valentine's Day Sucks

Author: Steph

Category: Humor

POV: Weiss

Pairings: Weiss/Mitchell, Weiss/Nadia, Carrie/Marshall, Weiss/Vaughn friendship

Spoilers: No real spoilers. Just takes place during season four, but nothing spoilery except a new relationship.

Rating: PG

Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Disclaimer: Alias and its characters do not belong to me. I do this out of  
a love for the show and no infringement is intended.

Summary: Weiss spends Valentine's Day babysitting Mitchell.

Note: This is for the January fanfic challenge. The sole requirement was that it be humorous. Well, you be the judge. It was fun to write though. I've never done Weiss POV, so that was really fun to write. Nice change of pace from my usual S/V stuff.

Note #2: I just wanted to apologize to anyone who read this story earlier. I didn't realize that the formatting got all messed up and there was missing punctuation. That always bugs me when I read it, so sorry about that. It should be fixed now. Thanks to UKHoneyB for pointing that out.

Hope you enjoy it and please let me know what you thought! Steph

101 Reasons Valentine's Day Sucks: Part 1/1

There are 101 reasons Valentine's Day sucks. I won't bore you with all 101. It would take too long and I don't have the attention span or stamina. A few should suffice.

I've always hated Valentine's Day. Ever since I was a kid. I have yet to have a good Valentine's Day.

In the fifth grade, I gave Suzy Jergens a homemade valentine. I'm talking red heart-shaped doilies and lots of glitter. I wrote "Be Mine" in huge letters and signed it "Your Secret Valentine". I put it on her desk before she came in to school that morning and waited for her reaction. When she saw the valentine, she got this huge smile on her face, jumped up and down, and starting giggling with all of her friends. I kept waiting for her to come over to me. She had to know it was from me. I'd only liked her since the first grade. Ever since she threw up on me in Gym. She had to know. Didn't she? Apparently not. She walked right over to Billy Blue-Eyes-Blonde-Hair-Perfect-Teeth-I'll-Probably-Stuff-You-in-a-Locker-in-Five-Years Hopkins She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. And he let her believe it was from him.

My sophomore year in high school, I had a massive crush on Helen Reilly, head cheerleader and so out of my league she was in another universe. I wanted to ask her to the Valentine's Day dance, but couldn't work up the courage. My mother somehow found out about this and marched right up to Helen in front of school and asked her out for me. I think Helen's still laughing. I spent that Valentine's Day playing Monopoly with my parents. I was the thimble. It doesn't get more pathetic than that.

Actually, it does. My junior year in college, I finally had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day. Kelly Reynolds. She was smart and funny and pretty...and, yes, she also had eyes and ears. For some reason, she liked me. That is, until I took her to a Karaoke Bar on Valentine's Day, got spectacularly drunk, serenaded her with a god-awful rendition of "When a Man Loves a Woman" while standing on top of a table, and then mooned the audience. By the time I got back to our table, she was gone.

My first year with the agency, I saw an ad in the newspaper and decided to try one of those singles Valentine's Day parties. I figured at least I could be in a room with people as equally pathetic as I was. It took me two hours to figure out that what I had gone to was actually a Valentine's Day party for single transvestites. The sad part is that was my best Valentine's Day ever. I got three numbers.

And that brings us to today. I'm dating this incredibly hot, smart, strong woman. I figure this Valentine's Day is going to be great. For once. I had a whole evening planned. We'd go out to dinner at a fancy restaurant - you know, the kind with cloth napkins and tablecloths and those menus that are as big and heavy as the table. Then we'd take a moonlit walk along the beach. I'd drive her home and present her with a single red rose. And then she'd invite me in. To stay this time. It was supposed to be perfect.

Then why am I sitting here at 8:00 pm in my boxers, eating Cheetos, drinking beer and watching "Full House" reruns? (That Michelle cracks me up.)

One Hour Earlier

I take a quick look in the rearview mirror. Not bad. I actually clean up pretty good. I even rinsed and repeated in the shower. It is, after all, a special night.

I take a deep breath, get out of the car, and walk to the door. I knock and wait for an answer. A minute later, Vaughn answers the door. He eyes me and smiles.

"Is that a clean shirt?"

"More or less. It is Valentine's Day."

A hacking cough comes from behind him and we both look in the direction of the couch. His smile fades as he looks back at me.

"Nadia's sick."

My face falls. "How sick?"

"You didn't just hear her cough up a lung?"

"That sounded more like a tickle in her throat. I'm sure she's fine."

Denial. It's a good friend of mine.

I brush past Vaughn and walk into the living room. I find Sydney sitting on the couch next to someone...or something. Its hair is standing up on end, a la Don King. It eyes are red-rimmed and its nose is crusty and swollen. It sniffs and then coughs. It's aliiiiive!

"Hi," it croaks. "I'm sick."

"I can see that," I say, taking a step back and discreetly covering all orifices on my face with my hand.

"I'm sorry," it says before dissolving into a coughing fit.

Sydney hands it a cup of tea. "Here, drink this. It'll help." She then turns to me. "Nadia really needs to rest. Vaughn and I are just going to spend a quiet night at home. I can take care of her. You don't have to stay."

I feel a pang of guilt. First, for thinking of the woman I'm dating as a creature. Second, because the thought of staying never entered my mind.

"Are you sure? Why don't you guys go out and have a nice Valentine's Day? I can stay with her."

Please say no. Please say no. This is what we call an empty gesture. You say it to look good with absolutely no intention of actually doing it.

She now has snot running down her face. There is nothing sadder than a hot girl gone horribly wrong.

Sydney smiles and looks down at Nadia. "No, I want to stay."

I throw my hands up in defeat and look at Vaughn. "Well, I tried. You sure got a stubborn one there." I look back at Nadia. "I guess I'll be going. Feel better. Drink liquids and...stuff. And brush your hair. I've heard that helps." I pick up a box of tissues, pull a bunch out, and fling them in the general vicinity of her. "I think you could probably use those."

See, that was nice and helpful.

Vaughn walks me to the door and whispers, "You could have just said you disgust me. It would have been more subtle."

I groan as the door closes behind me. I slowly walk back to my car and place my head on the steering wheel. I hate this holiday.

So, here I am. Alone and pathetic once again. At least I'm consistent.

The doorbell suddenly rings. I pull myself away from a particularly gripping episode of "Full House" - while baby-sitting, DJ's charge gets his head stuck in the stair railing - and get up.

For a moment, I feel a rush of excitement course through me. Maybe Nadia is magically better. She'll look hot again and not sound like Barry White and we can go on our wonderful Valentine's Day date.

I throw the door open only to find Marshall, Carrie and Mitchell. They practically mow me down entering my place.

Carrie starts depositing baby things all over my place. My eyes widen. I look at Marshall.

"Whoa, what's going on?"

"Our baby-sitter canceled on us-..."

"She didn't cancel. You insulted her." Carrie corrects him.

Marshall shakes his head. "Insulted is a strong word. I merely informed her of the dangers piercings can pose." Marshall whispers,"She's just a little sensitive."

"Okay, what does this have to do with me?" I ask, praying for anything but the obvious answer.

Marshall shrugs, "We have a reservation and we called all of our other friends."

I shake my head back and forth. "All of them? What about Jack? He's a kid magnet. He's like a very serious clown. You know those sad clowns with tears running down their faces? That's Jack. Kids love those clowns. Or how about Sloane? He's great with kids. They like the mystery and the beady eyes. It reminds them of mice. Kids love mice. I mean, Stuart Little? Come on. Or Sark. He's got tons of time on his hands and he's, like, what? Twelve. He'll really be able to relate to a child. Plus, aren't you two pretty tight after that whole egg thing?"

Carrie shakes her head disapprovingly. "Are you seriously suggesting that we leave our son with an emotionally stunted man, homicidal psychopath or a convict?"

"I don't like to label people."

She rolls her eyes and starts moving objects on my coffee table onto high shelves.

"What are you doing? Are you redecorating?"

"This place isn't baby-proof."

"No, no, it isn't. That's because no babies live here. Or visit here. Ever."

"No kidding," she says, as she wrinkles her nose at my collection of naked women figurines.

I shake my head violently. "Not only is this place NOT baby-proof, it is a danger to all babies. I have rat poison that is very easily reachable, I leave prescription drugs capless all over the floor, all of my furniture has very sharp corners and, to top it off, I have porn. Lots and lots of porn. Magazines and videos."

Carrie brushes Cheeto crumbs off the couch, paying me no attention.

I sigh and rub at my eyes. "You couldn't have called everyone you know."

"It's Valentine's Day. They're all busy," she replies. Marshall nods his agreement.

"I'm busy. I'm very busy."

She eyes me. "You're in your underwear, eating Cheetos, drinking beer, and watching reruns of a cheesy sitcom."

"Hey, 'Full House' was not cheesy."

"Oh, please tell me you're not one of those perverts who likes watching Mary-Kate and Ashley."

"No, I'm not one of those perverts. But, just so you know, they're legal now."

She glares at Marshall. "We can't leave our son with a pervert. He does have porn."

"He's not a pervert." He looks at me. "You're not a...right? Tell her you're not...he's not."

I briefly consider claiming the title if it'll get me out of this.

I shake my head. "I don't know anything about babies. I don't know what they eat or what they do."

"He's already eaten. If he gets hungry again, give him some baby food that's in the bag. He poops and sleeps. He should sleep the whole time. Just put him down in the playpen," Carrie replies.

"About the pooping part," I say.

"We call it poopsies," Marshall adds helpfully.

I shoot him daggers. "I'm not saying poopsies."

Carrie groans. "I just changed him. He should be fine. We shouldn't be gone more than two hours. If he does need to be changed, use that brain CIA trained agents are supposed to have and change him. I'm sure you've seen it done on that show you enjoy. Remove dirty diaper, wipe, powder, put new diaper on. It doesn't take a genius. Even you should be able to handle it. Everything you need is in the baby bag. Come on, Marshall. Let's go." She then looks at me and the bottle of beer in my hand. "Oh and no alcohol. We don't like Mitchell being around it." She pulls the bottle of beer out of my hand.

"No alch...you've got to be kidding."

Marshall hands Mitchell to me. "Thanks and sorry. I owe you a big one. I mean, huge. Anything you want. Within reason, of course. And it'll have to be approved by Carrie. But pretty much anything. Mostly."

With that, he walks out the door. I hold Mitchell out in front of me and look at him. He smiles. Thank God I don't have any stairs with a railing.

I sigh. "The sad part is your the best company I've ever had on Valentine's Day. Sure, you drool like my Uncle Lou and you smell like my Uncle Ed, but you're probably better company than both."

Holiday. Sucks. Many reasons.

-

Okay, you know that talking baby from the Quiznos commercials? Baby Bob or something like that? Well, Mitchell looks exactly like him. I never noticed it until today. Mitchell looks like the creepy talking baby.

And it's freaking me out. Everytime I look at him, I imagine his mouth moving unnaturally and this manly voice coming out. I can't look at him anymore.

I start walking around the house, trying to find something to cover his freaky baby face up with. I open the hall closet and smile. Perfect. I return with my Mike Myers 'Halloween' mask. I scare Vaughn with it every year. I'll ask him to come over, leave the door open with all the lights off and when he comes in looking for me, I walk out of the closet, stand behind him, wait until he turns around, and then scare him. He falls for it every year. Screams like a girl.

I place the mask over Mitchell's face. It's a little big, but with some slight adjustments stays on just fine. There's a mouth hole, so I don't have to worry about him suffocating. Carrie would throw a fit.

I stare at him for a few minutes before realizing that a baby Mike Myers is far scarier than creepy talking baby. I take the mask off.

"So, what do you want to do?"

He stares blankly at me. Damn, babies are boring.

I sit back on the couch and place him on my lap. I point at the television. "See, that's baby Michelle. You're what now? Like one, one and a half. She's about the same age right here. I gotta tell you, Mitchell. She's way ahead of you. She's already a television star, making lots of money. Actually, there's two of them. Mary-Kate and Ashley. Two babies making more money than I do. And what do you do? Sit in your own bodily fluids, that's what. Not too impressive. I'm actually surprised Daddy doesn't have you enrolled in, like, baby calculus classes or something. Maybe next year."

I start flipping through the channels, having filled my 'you've got it, dude' quota for the night. I stop on the Lifetime channel.

"This is television for women. Not that they seem to like women very much. They're always victims and in danger on this channel." Mitchell nods his head, as if he knows this to be true. "Oh, look, it's a Women in Love movie marathon. They might start out in love, but it won't last. Their husbands will cheat or beat them. They'll probably shoot their husbands and end up in jail. Really uplifting stuff. Warms the heart. Oh, this one's my favorite. A Tori Spelling classic. 'Mother, May I Sleep with Danger'. The quintessential Women in Love movie."

We watch for a few minutes before I grow bored.

I sigh and look down at him. "This is seriously all you do? Geez, I don't know what parents are always complaining about. Babies are easy. They don't do anything." He shrugs his little shoulders. "Aren't you old enough to walk? I'm pretty sure I've seen kids about the same size as you walking."

I pick him up and place him down on the floor. My question is answered very quickly. He starts walking...everywhere. His little wobbly legs carry him quickly around the room. And he starts touching...everything. Carrie couldn't move everything into out-of-reach-baby-universe. He heads over to my DVD rack. My eyes widen as he starts pulling DVDs off of it and throwing them on the floor.

"Whoa, whoa, stop! Hey, that's my 'Die Hard' trilogy! Not 'Erin Brockovich'! Oh, man!" Just then, a flying 'Shrek' hits me in the forehead. I stumble backwards and fall on my ass. He turns and looks at me, before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

I rub at my forehead and stand up. I race towards him, but his little Road Runner legs allow him to effectively elude me. He races towards the bathroom. Oh no. Oh damn. The door's open.

He gets there first and somehow manages to slam the door closed in my face. I turn the doorknob, but the door won't budge. There's no way he could have locked it. Unless he's some sort of baby genius, like in that really crappy movie. Maybe he's an evil superhuman baby genius.

This is not good. That room is really not baby-proof. There are cleaning fluids under the sink. Not that I ever use them, but they are there and harmful, nonetheless. And I left the toilet seat up. I once saw an episode of 'Oprah' where this baby drowned in a toilet. Oh my God, I'm going to kill Marshall and Carrie's baby. And then Carrie's going to kill me.

I start banging on the door. "Mitchell, open the door! This is not funny. Michelle never did this to Uncle Jesse! Joey maybe, but not Uncle Jesse! And I am Uncle Jesse in this absurd little play. We have very similar hair. Lots of body."

A minute later, the door swings open. It wasn't locked, just jammed, I guess. I find Marshall sitting on the rug next to the bathtub, covered in liquid bubble bath. Yes, I have bubble bath. My shower head's broken, okay? What? Men don't deserve to relax? Stop judging me.

He has poured the bubble bath all over himself. It's in his hair, on his face, all over his clothes. I guess he somehow didn't get it in his eyes because he's smiling, not crying. I walk over to him and pull the bubble bath bottle out of his hands. Empty. There goes my Sensual Strawberry.

I pick him up and hold him arms length away. "What am I supposed to do with you now? You need to be sprayed clean, but my shower head's broken. My sinks don't have one of those cool detachable spray faucet things." I think for a moment, a brilliant thought entering my mind. I walk out of the bathroom and to the front door. Mitchell is squirming in my outstretched arms, but I manage to hold onto the slimy little creature.

I walk down to Sydney's and Nadia's. I'd driven there earlier because Nadia and I were supposed to go out to eat. But they're actually very close. I tiptoe across the lawn and flatten myself against the house. I manage to hold Mitchell with one hand and search the side of the house for the knob. I smile as I find it. I place Mitchell on the grass and grab the hose attached to the faucet. I turn the knob and aim the hose at him. Luckily, it's been very warm, so the water is not cold. The water falls over him, washing the bubble bath off of him and making a soapy puddle on the ground. He laughs as the water hits him, clapping his hands and banging his feet.

"I'm glad someone's having fun tonight."

I'm just about to turn it off, when the front door opens and I hear Vaughn's voice. Damn, why couldn't I have a hose of my own?

"So, NyQuil? That's all you want?"

"Yeah, that's it," Sydney replies.

Vaughn closes the door and turns around. His mouth drops open at the sight of me holding a hose and drenching a baby. I stand frozen.

"What are you doing?"

"Baby-sitting."

His mouth turns into a smile and he reaches to turn the knob off. "If Sydney and I ever have children remind me not to let you baby-sit."

I glare at him. "Hey, it's not my fault. They just dumped me with this kid and he poured bubble bath all over himself."

"Yeah, Marshall and Carrie called here to ask us to baby-sit. We told her about Nadia. I guess you were their last resort."

"I suggested Sloane, Jack, or Sark, but was shot down."

Vaughn smiled, picked Mitchell up, and handed him to me. "Here, you better get him out of this wet clothes. Good luck."

"Wait. You're not going to help me?"

"I have to go get NyQuil."

"How about I go get the NyQuil and you change the baby."

"Nice try" he threw over his shoulder, as he continued his walk to the car.

I sigh loudly and look at Mitchell. "Nice friend, huh. I'm in need and that's what I get."

I carry a dripping Mitchell back to my place.

I search through the baby bag, hoping to find some new jammies with the footsies. There's no change of clothes in this bag. What kind of mother is Carrie? I find the diapers, powder, and wipes. No point in denying I need to put a new diaper on. The other one must be soaked.

I carry the items and the baby into the bedroom, grabbing a towel on the way, and place him on the bed. I strip the wet pajamas and throw them on the floor. I then pat him dry. He tries to kick me a couple of times, but I gracefully avoid any contact. I take a deep breath and then move to the diaper. Please don't let there be a surprise in here. Please. I've had enough surprises for one night. I undo the tabs and pull the diaper back. I exhale in relief. All clear. I remove the diaper and pat him dry. I place him back on the bed and look down at his little weapon, which is aimed right at my face.

I chuckle and shake my head. "Oh no. I've seen way too many sitcoms and movies where the idiot guy tries to change a diaper and gets hit right in the face. I'm not going to be that idiot guy. I'm an idiot guy, just not that one."

I move my body out of harm's way and start surveying my bedroom for something I can use as a shield, should disaster strike. I dig through my closet and strike gold. My hockey helmet. It has a face mask. I use it when I play with Vaughn. I place the helmet on my head and look down at my t-shirt. I need more protection. I dig some more and...bingo. My chest protector for when I play softball and I'm the catcher. I place it on and move back to the bed.

"Take your best shot, you pint-size assassin. I've got it covered." Mitchell regards me with a strange expression before laughing. I don't think this kid takes me seriously.

I take a diaper out of the bag, open it up and place it underneath him. I then take the powder out, open it and generously powder his bum, as the British say. I pull the front flap up and attach the tabs at the side. I smile at my skilled work.

"See, not hard at all. They always make it look so hard on television and in the movies. Or maybe I'm just that good."

I remove the helmet and chest protector and stare at Mitchell. He smiles, giggles and then kicks me square in the jaw.

"Son of a-..." I start to say, as I rub at my jaw, before remembering the baby. I'm thinking foul language is against the Flinkman rules.

I continue to rub at my jaw as I look at him. "Guess I removed the helmet too soon." He bobs his head up and down. There's something not right about this kid.

After my jaw reaches a dull throb, I realize he needs dry clothes. Unfortunately, I haven't had any clothes that small since...well, ever. I was a very big baby. I pick Mitchell up and walk to my dresser. I start rummaging through the drawers. I pick out the smallest t-shirt I own. It was my favorite shirt in college. I return to the bed and place it over his head. The t-shirt swims on him and pools at his feet. I place him down on his back and try to make some adjustments. I gather the t-shirt around his diaper and tie it at his side in a little rosette. Quite expertly, I might add. I have sisters, okay?

I shrug and look at him. The t-shirt reads "Professional Bikini Inspector" and has a really hot cartoon girl in a bikini on it. "Well, with the shirt tied like that, you look like either a gay guy doing a really bad job of pretending to be straight or a lesbian."

I pick him up and the wet jammies. I walk into the kitchen, eyeing the wet clothes. I don't have a dryer, so this complicates matters. "We've got to dry these clothes and get you back into them before Mommy comes back and thinks I really am a pervert."

I look at my microwave and then at Mitchell. "You think" He gurgles and starts drooling. "I'm pretty sure I've seen people dry things in microwaves. It may have been on television and disaster my have followed, but I'm pretty sure I've seen it."

I place the wool jammies and a bag of popcorn in the microwave. I'm hungry, plus I figure it shouldn't take longer than the time it takes to make popcorn. I press the 'popcorn' button. There is no 'jammies' button.

The popcorn starts popping. Soon the kitchen smells like popcorn and wet dog. I look at the microwave. The jammies are starting to spark. Oh no. The zipper. The metal zipper.

My eyes widen in horror, as Mitchell laughs at the little fireworks display taking place in my microwave. The sparks quickly grow into flames and soon the jammies are engulfed.

I'm good in an emergency. I am a trained CIA agent, after all. I'm cool. Calm. Collected.

At least in theory. In truth, I scream like a girl and start yelling 'fire' at the top of my lungs. Mitchell starts crying and I panic. I plop him in the sink and rush to the microwave. I start hitting buttons, but it won't go off. I finally just pull at the handle and it opens. The footsies are all that remain of the jammies and now my popcorn's under attack. I'm brave, so I attempt a rescue mission of the popcorn. I stick my hands in and try to grab it. I manage to grab it, but it's burning my hands.

"Son of a bitch," I say, as I hop back and forth, totally forgetting about the foul language thing. Mitchell has stopped crying and is now laughing at what he believes to be dancing for his viewing pleasure. I run to the refrigerator and throw the bag in it. I then go back to the microwave, which is still on fire.

Okay, what have I learned about fires? Stop, drop, and roll. I don't think that's going to help here.

Oh wait. I saw this show once where they said how to put out a grease fire in the kitchen. They used powder or something. I remember it was white. My eyes light up. I have powder. I run to the bedroom and retrieve the baby powder. I open it up and begin shaking it at the microwave, with little to no result. "Come on, you stubborn bas-..."

It's then that I catch the horrified expressions of Carrie and Mitchell out of the corner of my eye. They're standing in the doorway looking appropriately stunned.

"Oh, hey. How was dinner?" I ask casually.

"What the hell is going on here?" Carrie asks. "Where's Mitchell?"

I nod toward the sink. She goes over to make sure he's okay and picks him up. "What is he wearing? What happened to his jammies?"

Marshall is staring wide-eyed at the microwave, which is still on fire. "Um, you don't have a...you know, the red thing, with the nozzle and the spray stuff comes out. It's for fires. Fire ex...extinguisher. Every kitchen is supposed to have a fire extinguisher."

"Would I be using baby powder if I had a fire extinguisher, Marshall?"

Carrie looks at my hand holding the powder. "Why are you throwing baby powder on a fire?"

"I saw it on television. It's a proven method to put out kitchen fires."

"No, you idiot. That's baking soda. You know, orange box, usually found in refrigerators. Eliminates odors. Not that you would know anything about that."

She walks over to the refrigerator in search of this mystery powder. Her eyes widen at the smoking and charred bag of popcorn sitting inside. She turns to me. "This happened making popcorn? A monkey could make popcorn."

"Not exactly," I reply. "There was a little more to it than that."

She shakes her head in disgust and begins to search my refrigerator for the baking powder. She finds it in the door. She walks over, throws it on the fire and, in seconds, the fire is extinguished.

I look at the box and then her. "Where did that come from? I don't remember buying that."

"You probably thought it was powdered sugar," she says disdainfully.

I shrug. She's probably right. She moves closer to the microwave and takes a sniff. "What's that smell? It smells like wet dog."

"Oh, there was a dog here earlier. And he was wet." Nice cover.

She sticks her head in the microwave to take a closer look and pulls out a footsie. Her mouth drops open and she glares at me. "What is this?"

"I have no idea. The microwave was already here when I bought the place. The owners probably left it behind."

Her nostrils flare. "You put my child's jammies in the microwave? What's wrong with you?"

"In my defense, I know I've seen people dry clothes in the microwave before."

"It has a zipper, you moron! A metal zipper! You can't put metal in the microwave!"

"I actually did know that."

"Yet you did it anyway."

I shrug. She looks at Mitchell in her arms. "How did the jammies get wet?"

I swallow hard. "I kind of had to hose him off."

"You hosed my son off like he's some kind of animal!"

"When you put it like that it just sounds-..."

"Moronic. Idiotic."

"I was going to say bad, but whatever."

Marshall walks over to Carrie. "Sweetie, why don't we just go?"

"No, I want to know why our son needed to be hosed off." Her nose twitches and she brings it to Mitchell's head. "Why does he smell like strawberries?"

Ding, ding, I've got it. I cannot get in trouble for this. "We were eating strawberries and it got a little messy, so I had to clean him up. It happens."

I am a brilliant, brilliant man. All evidence may not point to that tonight, but I am. Trust me.

Marshall and Carrie's brows wrinkle in worry. "You gave him strawberries!" Carrie yells.

Uh oh. "Um, yeah? Why? He's old enough to eat strawberries, right? I cut them up into small pieces and every-..."

"He's allergic to strawberries! Marshall has a lot of allergies-..."

"Tomatoes, all nuts, all shellfish, chocolate-..." Marshall begins to list.

"...so we had the doctor test Mitchell to see if he was allergic to anything. And he's allergic to strawberries"

My eyes widen in horror. "Wait. Like eating strawberries or...say, being covered with strawberry scented liquid." Please say just eating.

Carrie eyes me. "He has to ingest strawberries."

I breathe a sigh of relief. "He's fine then. He just poured strawberry scented bubble bath all over himself."

Carrie kisses Mitchell's forehead. "Oh, thank God." Then she looks back at me. "Do I even want to know?"

"Probably not." I then add. "But, you know, you should have told me what he was allergic to. That wasn't very responsible."

Her eyes bore holes into my head, but I don't quit while I'm ahead. "I mean, if you think about how things could have gone, this is really nothing. This is actually kinda funny. It kind of makes you look at the whole situation in a new light, doesn't it? Makes you see what's really important. All of this? Not important. Funny. It's funny."

"My son is wearing a "Professional Bikini Inspector" t-shirt," she says through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I'm going to need that back."

Carrie looks at Marshall. "Marshall, get everything and meet me in the car." With that, she marches out of the house.

Marshall turns to me. "I'm sorry about all of this. I know we just kind of dropped this on you and it wasn't really fair."

I shrug my shoulders. "It's okay. I actually had fun. Sad to say, but it's probably the best Valentine's Day I've ever had, ruined microwave and all."

Marshall smiles. "Well, thanks. Maybe you can baby-sit-..."

"Don't even think about it."

He nods. "Probably for the best. I'm sure Carrie's taking a restraining order out against you as we speak."

I chuckle. "Yeah, I wouldn't doubt it."

Thirty minutes later, all signs of a baby having been here are gone. Except for my smoldering microwave, but that really wasn't his fault. I walk to the kitchen, take out the bag of charred popcorn, and leave the house.

I walk down to Sydney and Nadia's and knock on the door. Vaughn answers again. He smiles.

"Sorry, we're all out of babies for you to hose off."

"Very funny. Can I come in?"

He moves aside to allow me entrance. Nadia is still sitting on the couch with Sydney. She doesn't look any better, but at least I'm not referring to her as a creature anymore. I think I've grown.

"Hi, how are you feeling," I ask, as I sit down beside her.

"Better," she croaks.

"Really?"

"No."

I smile and hand her the bag of popcorn. "I brought you something. I know how you like burnt popcorn."

She looks at the charred bag and opens it. "It smells like wet dog."

"Long story."

She takes a few burnt pieces out and pops them in her mouth. She smiles. "Thanks."

"No problem," I say, as I settle into the couch.

I look over at her. Don King hair, crusty nose and all.

And then I realize this really is the best Valentine's Day I've ever had. This time, I've got the girl...even in her current incarnation. If only I'd realized that earlier. Then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have to go out and buy a new microwave.

Still, maybe Valentine's Day doesn't suck quite as much as I originally thought. Maybe there are only 100 reasons.

THE END  
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. Steph


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